Dark Romance Collection: A Sexy, Dark Bundle

by Huntington, Parker S.

  “You were eighteen, and the head of a mafia syndicate threatened you.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me.” I shook my head. "I’m a Vitali. I had more power than him.”

  “You were eighteen.”

  I sighed, backed away from him, and laid flat on the bed. “Leaving was still wrong.”

  “You know how I was mean to you when you first came to Devils Ridge?”

  “Ha!” I accepted the subject change and rolled my eyes. “How could I forget?”

  “It was because I caught you in my room. At the time, I was making power plays to overthrow my dad. I was so goddamned paranoid.” He hesitated. For some reason, when he looked at the ring tattooed around my finger, his features smoothed, and he continued. “There was someone behind the scenes helping me. A benefactor. I would get anonymous packages, instructions, and tips. Things like that.”

  My brows furrowed. “I’ve never heard of a benefactor.”

  If Papà caught wind of this, he’d blister.

  “For the longest time, The Benefactor pulled my strings. Helped me when I needed it—before I even knew I needed help. I still don’t know why. But there you were, this stranger from a powerful family, searching my room.” He arched a brow. “And don’t even deny that you were snooping.”

  I laughed. “I was definitely snooping. I needed a phone.”

  “And you stole mine.” He let out a groan. “That just made it worse. I had messages in there from The Benefactor, and I’d spent months wondering what you knew. You never let up.”

  “Because I knew nothing.”

  “Well, I know that now.”

  “And you have no idea who The Benefactor is?”

  “I’ve been trying to track him down, but I haven’t had any luck. That night, I was talking about The Benefactor when I said your dad wasn’t the one who sent you to Devils Ridge.”

  “For the record, I wasn’t mad at you for that. Was I shocked? Yes, but something about being sent to Devils Ridge felt wrong. Like it was too drastic a punishment for catching my dad cheating. Since my dad’s always been off the rails, I never questioned it. I just used the revelation as an excuse to leave you in a way you wouldn’t question.”

  Damian sighed and leaned back. “Maybe you were right to leave me. I’d like to think I could take on my dad, but fuck, he killed my mom. You gave me an opportunity to battle him on my own terms rather than him taking me by surprise. But I wish that hadn’t required a fight that took ten years away from us.”

  A lump jammed my throat. That fight still hurt. Bringing up Angelo’s threat was one thing. Talking about the actual fight in detail was another. One day, I would be able to talk about it more. Today was not that day.

  I sat up and stared down at Damian. “You know, you promised me a date, and I’m a little miffed that we’ve never been out on a date before.”

  “We had library dates.”

  “But we’ve never been out on a date. Those were in your house.”

  “Speaking of the house, I never sold it. I live in a townhouse close to Devils Ridge High, but I never sold the mansion. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to knock it down with a wrecking ball, but I could never bring myself to sell or destroy it.”

  I remembered how much he hated the De Luca house. “Why not?”

  “The library.”

  Our library.

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “There are other libraries.”

  “Not the same.”

  “We made memories in this library last night.” My hand slid down his chest and dipped below the band of his sweatpants.

  He grabbed my hand and led it to his erection. We stroked it together. His hand gripped the base of his cock. I wrapped my palm around the top, my thumb brushing against his head. He twisted up, and I followed his lead, working his length with him.

  He leaned up and nipped my neck.

  I let out a soft sigh, and my hand stilled. “The library’s crowded out there. We already had someone interrupt us last night. It’s an old library. There’s no soundproofing.”

  “Let them hear.”

  He flipped me, so he hovered over me. Moving down my body, he slid my sleeping shorts and underwear down. I slung my legs over his shoulders and interlocked my ankles. He gave my pussy an open-mouthed kiss before he carried me to the bookshelf, his lips still pressed against my core.

  “Oh, God.” I reached behind me and gripped one of the shelves.

  Books fell to the floor. I couldn’t even bother to keep my voice down. Damian’s hands squeezed my ass, pushing me closer to his face. His nose brushed against my clit, and I groaned loud enough that footsteps paused outside the door.

  Damian slid his tongue inside me, fucking me with it. Over and over again as I rode his face. I came with a scream, and my core clenched around his tongue. This time, every book on the shelf had fallen to the floor.

  When he set me back on the bed, lowered his sweats, and moved to enter me, I stopped him with a quirked brow. “We’re still going on a date.”

  He looked too satisfied. “Whatever you want.”

  “Now.”

  “Now?” He had his erection out and paused mid-stroke.

  “Yup. Date first.”

  He clenched his eyes shut but tucked himself back inside his sweats. “Date it is.”

  I smiled at him. It was toothy and one-hundred percent genuine.

  The atmosphere felt lighthearted. Playful. Not weighed down by the eternal forces we’d always been plagued by.

  It felt right.

  Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.

  Thomas Jefferson

  We stood outside the bustling subway entrance. A dirty white tile laid beside the stairwell underground. Etched shooting stars surrounded messy text.

  I turned to Damian. “We’re here.”

  “Chinatown? Are we getting soup dumplings?”

  “No, here.” I pointed to the tile. “Read it.”

  He cut me an odd stare before relenting. “One day, I’ll see you every day, and we’ll be forever, like dreams.” He cocked a brow. “What is this?”

  “A Toynbee tile.”

  “A tile named after the story?”

  “Could be. Or they could be named after the historian—Arnold J. Toynbee. There are some more theories. No one really knows for sure.” I grabbed his hand and led him across the street. “Toynbee tiles are messages embedded in tiles in streets all over major US cities. Four South American cities, too.”

  “Who makes them?” He was indulging me—I knew that—but it just made me like him more.

  A few more steps, and we’d get to the next tile. “No one knows who creates them—past and present. But it started in the 80s. Honestly, I’d bet there are hundreds of creators. People who just want to cement their place in history.” I stopped in front of the next, a few blocks from the last one. “Here’s another.”

  A crack split this one in two, but it only added to its appeal. It was history, stomped on, worn out, but forever here. In a fucked-up way, it reminded me of my relationship with Damian. A little too much.

  Damian looked down and read aloud. “Will it always hurt this much? Or is this Forever making me work for it?”

  The grin on my face was one-hundred percent stupid.

  He took in my face. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This is cheesy and dramatic.”

  “The tile?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Yes.”

  The laughter slipped past my lips. “I won’t argue with that.”

  His eyes narrowed at my laughter, but he let it slide. “Are we doing a tile tour? That’s… either very original or so New York City hipster.”

  “Yes, this is a tile tour. Bear with me, Texas.”

  “I don’t mind the history, but I wouldn’t say no to some incentive.”

  I looked both ways before pushing Damian into the brick wall between two stores. I placed each of hi
s hands on my hips to give me coverage from the crowded street.

  He gave me a look. “What are you doing?”

  I felt carefree and devious as I dipped my hands into my skirt from the waistband. “Giving you incentive.” Tearing the fabric on each side, I pulled my panties off of me and tucked my shirt back in.

  “Are those your panties?”

  “Yes.” I slid them into the pocket of his suit pants, my fingers brushing against his length as I pulled my hand out. “For every tile we see, I’ll give you a piece of me.”

  He thought I meant my clothes. I meant everything. He had made the first move when we were kids. It was my turn to take a leap.

  The heat in his eyes traveled straight to my core. “Next tile. Now.”

  I laughed, and we walked a few blocks away, into Little Italy. I turned to him. “Most people think spaghetti and meatballs were invented in Italy, but they were actually first made here.”

  “How do you know so much about New York? I thought you went to boarding school in Connecticut.”

  “My mom lived near my school. She’d take me to the city at least once a month. We’d do a ton of cool things here. I fell in love with the city.” Even though sharing things went against my nature, this felt so right. “You’d like my mom. She stays under the radar.” I noted his frown and elaborated. “Yeah, she and Papà aren’t really good at the whole married thing.”

  A derisive scorn filled his handsome face. “I’d know something about that.”

  I sighed and took in the scent of Little Italy. “Here’s the next one.”

  Situated in between two pizzerias, just before the alleyway entrance, a tile read:

  I treaded the water when

  I wanted to dive in head first.

  Now, I’ve finally reached

  the deep end, but it’s empty.

  Next time, I won’t take too long.

  Damian wrapped an arm around my waist. “Are they all like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Sad.”

  “Just these ones.” I wondered if showing these to him hurt more than they helped, but he needed to see them. I needed to show them to him.

  So, instead of stopping, I angled my body so he blocked the view of me from everyone outside the alleyway. I wore a bralette, which I snapped at the straps and slid off me. My nipples formed tight little buds that pressed against my shirt, but other than that, I was okay enough for public consumption.

  I placed the bralette into his other pocket and scraped my nails slowly against his thigh through the fabric. He let out a groan, and I pushed past him before he could say anything. The next tile laid where Stuyvesant Town, Gramercy, and Murray Hill met.

  Under a canopy of green leaves, Damian read the tile. “If I had a second chance, I wouldn’t need another one.” He turned to me. “Do you think these are all written by the same person?”

  “The ones I’ve shown you? Yes. But there are so many more around the city, and I doubt they’re all written by even a handful of people.” I grabbed his hand, though my thighs and calves ached from the walking. “Two more.”

  “My incentive,” he reminded me.

  I turned to him, wrapped a hand around his neck, and kissed him. It was the kind of kiss people usually only achieved after years of dating. Part passion and steam. Part familiarity and comfort. Under the canopy of the trees and leaves that surrounded us on every side, it felt picturesque and more intimate than any other naughty gift I could give him.

  His tongue slid into my mouth and stroked my tongue, and I sighed into him before pulling back. “The last syndicate meeting is in an hour and a half, and we have two more tiles.”

  I led the way to the next tile, at the border of Midtown East and the Upper East Side, near Central Park. It read:

  Reality feels so permanent.

  I wish for a reset button.

  That time machines exist,

  like in the Toynbee Convector.

  “I’d give you another incentive, but it took us forty-five minutes to walk here, and it’s an hour walk to the next one.” I couldn’t believe we’d already spent hours walking around the city to see a few tiles, of which we had no clue the significance of.

  “Fine, but I get a question first.”

  “We can walk and talk.”

  He took my hand, and we began our walk down the length of Central Park. “What’s with the tiles?”

  “Every time I’d miss my mom at boarding school, I’d send her a letter with a wish. I never got any letters back, but when I saw Maman, she’d take me into the city for an adventure. They always ended at a Toynbee tile.”

  “So, they make you feel close to your mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you gonna give me any more than that?”

  “No. It’d ruin the big reveal.”

  About a minute from the next tile, I finally spoke again. “The tiles my mom would take me to were mine. The letters Maman got never had responses because she’d respond to them with the tiles.”

  “Those were her words back there?”

  “No.” I took a deep breath, my heart running marathons in my chest. “They’re mine. From the letters. Maman stamped my wishes forever into the ground, into history, to show me that dreams are forever. That anything I wished for could be forever. This one… this is the one from a letter I gave my mom. The first one I sent to her right after I left Devils Ridge.”

  We both looked down and read.

  I want my Damsel.

  The edges of the tiles had aged, and there my declaration stood, cemented in history for everyone to see. His eyes studied the tile, his expression thunderstruck.

  My hand gripped his shirt and turned him until he looked at me. “I’ve always wanted you, Damian. Even when I ran from you, my heart stayed with you, and you were always mine. I want a world where you’ll always be mine. I’m not stopping. I’m not hopping. I’m not even leaping. I already dove, and I don’t want you to catch me. I want you to fall with me.”

  We missed the meeting after that. His driver picked us up and took us back to the library, where we stayed for the rest of the weekend. For the first time in a long time, I felt happy and free.

  Deceit is the false road to happiness; and all the joys we travel through… vanish when we touch them.

  Aaron Hill

  We spent the rest of the summer together. Summer vacation was one of the greatest teaching perks. I had the luxury of having a big enough trust fund that I didn’t need a summer job, and I spent the time I had off with Damian.

  The De Luca syndicate spanned Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma. Damian had stuff to take care of in Oklahoma. So, we spent the rest of August and most of September in a lake house there.

  It wasn’t exactly taking things slowly, but it felt right. The days blended together in near-domestic bliss. Sometimes, Damian had to drive to Oklahoma City to speak with business associates, but most times, his business was close to Broken Bow, where we stayed in one of the De Luca vacation homes.

  He’d be gone for an hour or two a day, which I spent reading on a hammock in the backyard. Damian spent most of his time on Broken Bow Lake with me. By the end of our first week here, my pasty, New England skin was tanner than it had ever been since I’d fled Texas.

  I’d gotten used to seeing Damian in suits, but he dropped the suit in Broken Bow, unless he had a business matter to deal with. It was nice seeing him relaxed, shirtless in sweats or swim trunks, depending on our plans for the day.

  We spent every night together and woke up every morning beside one another. When he had to leave for the city, he would find his way back by nightfall, even if he hadn’t finished his business and had to wake up extra early to leave for the city again the next morning.

  One night, after meeting the Oklahoma caporegime, he returned home at the edge of dawn. I stayed up waiting for him, curled up with a worn paperback of Nightmare Abbey. He entered the room and watched me from the doorframe.

&nbs
p; I had just finished the part where Marionetta torments Scythrop. I’d been rereading the scene, thinking of the time I’d last read it. He had entered the library and let me borrow his phone, and we both pretended we hadn’t already been in love.

  Damian approached the bed, his eyes sleepy as he took the paperback from me. “Nightmare Abbey. I didn’t take you as an anti-romance type of girl.”

  It thrilled me that he remembered our conversation all these years later. I pressed a kiss to his lips as he hovered above me and recounted my words. “Was it my lack of faith in humanity that persuaded you otherwise?”

  Renovating the library became my new pet project. Damian came home to me choosing paint swatches, and when I woke up the next morning, he had the room painted the color I’d chosen. We built new shelves by hand and fitted them to the walls. He ordered classics I loved, and we had a shelf dedicated to the books we’d read together in Devils Ridge as teens. He convinced me to frame the words on my Toynbee tiles all over the library.

  Every day, he found ways to erase the pain of our pasts. He’d surprise me with limited edition paperbacks, which we’d read in the library all day long. Sometimes, we’d swim naked in the lake, and I’d convince him to read steamy passages to me from romance novels. He’d agree on the condition that I let him reenact them.

  We’d fuck when he returned from working and defaced the lake with our inability to keep our hands off each other. He had me on every surface of the library, and many times, we had to reorder the shelves after all the books had fallen to the floor. Sometimes, we made love. He’d kiss away the bad memories, and I’d kiss the scars his father had left on his back with a belt.

  Every now and then, Maman would call. I ignored her phone calls, even though I knew she’d approve of my relationship. After all, she’d been the one to try and convince me lately to let my guard down. But I didn’t want to break the spell, and I loathed the passing of time. Summer would end, and I’d have to return to reality—Maman, Papà, school, and the thousands of miles, which separated us.

  Between the picturesque scenery and the lazy days spent in love at a lake house, I’d let my guard down and convinced myself that life was perfect. Not that everything was actually perfect. I hadn’t heard from my dad in nearly a year. I was ignoring my mom’s calls. I’d see Damian press the ignore button on his phone nearly every time his consiglieri-slash-under boss called. But this was the closest to perfect I’d ever experienced.